Magic
by jack's wasted life
Summary: Rory finally tells Tristan what he deserves, only to go back and apologize later. They both don’t want to care; they both think the other doesn’t. Complete. Maybe.


Title: Magic – subject to change if I decide to further the story.

Rating: G

Pairing: R/T sort of

Spoilers: None

Summary: Rory finally tells Tristan what he deserves, only to go back and apologize later. They both don't want to care; they both think the other doesn't.

Disclaimer: Seriously, what's the point of these things? We all know that none of us own anything, right? If we owned things we wouldn't spend all our time reading and writing fan fiction.

Author's Note: I started writing this with something completely different in mind. I was going to make it a lot longer but this is all that came out of me. If my writer's block goes away and there are enough people who want me to, I'll see about continuing it. If not, then I think it stands fine on its own.

The hall was crowded with students hurrying to get to their next classes. A low buzz of talk flowed between them while lockers banged and shoes clapped the floor. It was almost calming, the familiarity of it all.

Two students stood in the middle of it all, faced-off in yet another argument, ignoring the bustle of the crowd. He was coming closer and she was backing up. This is how it always went.

"Come on, give in. You know you want to," he purred, reaching out a hand to rest beside her head, now pressed up against her locker.

"The only thing I want to give into is the urge to knee you in the crotch," she snarled.

He just smirked, dipping his head closer to hers.

"No need to get nasty now. Even if you can't admit it yet, I know you want me." With every word he got closer until his mouth was right next to her ear and he breathed into it, "You're mine."

It was too much. He went no further than he ever had but she was angry, fed-up, and she wanted this to stop. Now. She shoved him away, fury marring her usually kind face.

"Stop it. Stop pretending I am yours to be owned. I am not yours and I never will be. Get over yourself. I don't like you! In fact, every day I see you and you do this," she gestured between them, "I find myself hating you and I don't hate anybody! Not even Paris, who's proven time and again she hates me! That's how far I am from ever being 'yours'." She sighed, angrily, now resting her hands on her hips, and looked him dead in the eye. Her voice was a low, dark calm as she said, "I am just a conquest to you and you will never conquer me. So give up already. Leave me alone," and with that she shoved her way past him, not daring to look back.

He stood there, staring at her locker, not noticing the silence of the empty hallway. It didn't matter. In a way it complimented him because he was empty, too. His heart was broken – maybe. Maybe he just didn't understand. He couldn't believe she had resisted him, hated him even. She had left him, and she had never been his. He was truly alone.

With a sigh he turned, walked down the hallway and out the door.

For a week he didn't speak to her, or even glance her way. She was so relieved she almost didn't notice his sullen expression or the way the days seemed to pass slower, duller. This upset her. She didn't want to care and she didn't want to think it was because of her. He was an egotistical, chauvinistic jackass who deserved what she had said. She knew it, but by the time Monday rolled around again she was anxious to see him, to hear him say something to make her life more interesting. So, it was she, in the end, who approached him.

She found him leaning against a row of lockers, for once by himself. Books securely locked in her arms, pressed against her chest, she stopped next to him and tried to meet his eyes.

"Tristan," she said.

He glanced at her, then away, unfazed.

"Yes?" he replied as if bored.

"I'm sorry," she said, letting out a slow breath.

"No problem," he said.

A frown creased her brow. Why was he acting like this? She was trying to apologize – no, she had apologized, and he was completely indifferent. She had been wrong. It wasn't her. He had finally realized he couldn't have her and he'd moved on. There was nothing else to it.

"Okay," she said and turned to walk away, but not before noticing his hands, that were tightly clenched at his sides. That was odd, she thought. He was confusing. But it didn't matter, she told herself. She didn't care.

She was right, she was just a conquest, he told himself. He didn't care.

It was a lie. Oh, how he wanted her. Every fiber in his being called out to her, but he ignored it. He couldn't possibly care, he didn't have feelings, feelings were pain, and he'd known too much pain. He couldn't take anymore.

She was so frustrating. He wanted to throttle her for her inconsistencies. It wasn't fair to him.

But when had he ever been fair to her?

God, how he loathed her for breaking him. He never used to think so much. It hurt to think about her yet he couldn't stop. He wanted to blame her but he knew it was his fault. He'd been the one to push her, to torment her – to get attached – and she had pushed him away because of his endless need to be around her, to get a rise out of her. No, he didn't blame her, he couldn't.

He needed to stop thinking – to get away. It was too much. He needed some air. So, once again, on a Monday afternoon, he walked out of school early, only this time someone saw.

She frowned at the closing door. Where was he going, she wondered.

And she did a stupid thing – she followed him.

He stood off to the side of the door, hands in his pockets. At first she didn't see him but when she turned there he was, looking straight through her. She pinched herself. Her arm hurt, she was definitely there and she couldn't be invisible.

Nervous habit made her tuck her hair behind her ear as it whipped around in the wind. She was cold and this was uncomfortable. What was he looking at? She took a quick glance over her shoulder. There was nothing but parking lot.

Looking back at him she noticed his head was now bent. His unbuttoned blazer flapped in the wind and suddenly he looked lost.

What was she doing? She didn't know what to do.

Before she knew it words had just popped right out of her mouth.

"So, is that a hand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Had she just said that?

He looked at her, actually looked at her, for a long moment and then back down. By then she was blushing furiously.

"What?" he asked with a frown.

She grimaced at her bad taste. This was not the best time to start acting like Lorelei, just blurting stupid things out. But she couldn't help it. Like mother, like daughter.

"I don't know. It just popped out. When I'm nervous thoughts bounce around my head and pop out unexpectedly, usually at the most inopportune times. I'm like one of those really old popcorn poppers where you put the kernels in the bottom and then the popcorn pops up and out of the little plastic thing that's supposed to direct it towards the bowl but it never gets in anyway. See, I'm doing it now. Oh God, I'll shut up now."

She gulped in air, both hands going to her hair.

He smiled softly, still looking at the ground.

"You're nervous? Why?" He sounded nervous asking.

The cold was starting to get to her. She wrapped her arms around herself and willed her teeth not to chatter.

"You make me nervous," she whispered.

He looked up, startled. Blue clashed with blue. She wanted to move, to gasp – to breathe at the intensity of his look but it was breathless.

She moved one foot towards him and something hit her in the face. It was wet but felt as if it almost clung to her. It couldn't be rain. Looking up she saw dark clouds, and yes, the gift of magic: snow.

"Magic things happen when it snows," she sighed, happily.

He couldn't look away from her. Her smile was exquisite. She had never smiled like that around him before. Suddenly he felt warm. There was nowhere else he'd rather be than in that moment. He didn't feel the need to move, ever. If Rory Gilmore never talked to him again it didn't matter in that moment because he loved her without words.

"You're amazing," he breathed.

She drew her glance away from the sky and focused her smile at him.

Words were unnecessary for how he felt about her. He just felt, and that was something.

For a second her lips twitched, and then her smile was gone. She looked anywhere but at him.

"My mom says that snow is magic, that the best things happen when it snows." Her lips quirked up, slightly. "Don't you just love the snow?"

"Yes," he said without thinking.

And she smiled at him again.

He could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this.

Something in the back of his mind itched. He ignored it.

"So… Where are you going?" she asked, breaking the not so unpleasant silence.

Had she said something?

"What?" His nose crinkled in his confusion.

"Well, you came outside. I assumed you were going somewhere." She shrugged.

"Oh. No, I'm not going anywhere. I – uh – just needed some fresh air. Headache, you know?" He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at her, hoping she'd believe him. She did.

"Oh," was all she could think to say.

What was wrong with her? All she could think of was 'oh'? She had one of the biggest and broadest vocabularies in this school! Oh, she had said. Oh. There must be something else she could say…

"You want some Tylenol?"

He laughed, he couldn't help it. There was just something about her that made him want to laugh and smile. But then he remembered that she hated him and he hardened, his laughter dying. That was the itch.

She watched, curious, as he changed. One minute he was lost, the next laughing, and now he was blank; he was stone.

"I have to go," he mumbled and brushed past her.

Huh? What had just happened?

"You said you were just getting some fresh air." Confusion was plain in her voice.

He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder, and said, "the bell, Rory, it just rang. School's over."

"Oh," she said again, flabbergasted and blushing at her obliviousness.

People started spilling out of the doors to the building, swarming in all directions, and she lost him in the masses. She couldn't see him anymore. He was gone and she felt almost – disappointed.

She stood there for several more minutes as people continued to walk past her and the snow continued to fall.

Where was the magic she was supposed to be feeling – that she'd felt a moment before?

She sighed and turned towards the bus stop but someone caught her hand. Looking back she saw Tristan, smiling. She looked own at their hands, loosely clasped. He tugged at her gently.

"Let's make some magic." He smirked, but it wasn't suggestive or sinister, it was just a sort of amused smirk.

She was still looking at his hand, holding hers. It wasn't insistent or angry, it was nice. She suddenly felt warm, even as it begun to snow harder.

"What did you have in mind?" she asked, finally looking up into his eyes. He was still smirking and she raised an eyebrow in answer.

"Coffee?"

She laughed and squeezed his hand.

"How could I possibly refuse an offer like that?"

"Well, you could, but you don't really want to see me cry do you?" He smiled at her.

"A Gilmore girl never says no to coffee," she reassured, smiling back at him.

"Is that so?" he said.

She nodded.

"I'll be sure to write that down," he said.

Then he was leading her towards his car. It was the only one left in the parking lot. Startled, she looked around. Where had everyone gone? They'd been there a minute ago. Slightly dazed, she slid into the passenger seat of his car and set her bag by her feet.

The engine purred to life and she watched him fiddle with the heat for a moment, and then they were driving. There was no going back now – not that she wanted to. She should want to, but she didn't. Plus, she could really go for some coffee.


End file.
